


Real

by helvel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking, don't let those tags fool you this is lighthearted smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel
Summary: John and Arthur take some time to themselves.





	Real

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow I never thought anyone would replace John as my favourite character but I just love Arthur so much!  
also me: (writes fic after fic of sub John getting wrecked)  
me: ... maybe my favourite character didn’t change after all

Their makeshift camp is packed up and empty, no sign this was ever their home other than the trampled trails of grass between where the tents were. It was a nice spot during the time they spent here, and it makes John a little sad to see it like this. Well, that ain’t true, really – it’s hard to feel sad about anything when John knows what’s ahead for them.

“_Typical,_” Hosea says, with a glint of mischief in his eye, “We do all the work while you two go off to kick your heels up.”

Dutch laughs, loud and booming as he claps a hand onto John and Arthur’s shoulders. “Now, Hosea, you’re being too hard on them. These boys have earned a little time off, I’d say.”

“Suppose you’re right.” Hosea shrugs. “Besides, wouldn’t want a pair of oafs like this getting in our way in town. Hopeless, the both of them.”

John feels something bump against his side, and glances down to find Hosea pushing a bottle into his hand. John turns it over. The label says _ W. Nelson Aged Whiskey_, and Arthur lets out a low whistle when he sees it.

“_Damn_, old man, where did you find something like this?”

Hosea just smiles. “Never you mind. You boys just enjoy yourselves.”

It’s as good a parting gift as any, and they bid their farewells before going their separate ways – Dutch and Hosea towards town, and John and Arthur to the mountains with Copper trotting after them.

The plan for town, as John understands it, is some stock insurance scheme Dutch and Hosea have been cooking up. Three days is what they figure they’ll need, and then they’ll be gone from town without a trace – at which point they’ll meet up with John and Arthur to head east to Great Plains.

Until then, that’s three days John and Arthur have to themselves. Arthur says he knows a spot up in the mountains, nice little cabin where they can have a good time – shoot the breeze, play cards, get drunk, whatever they want. Just the two of them. And that means… 

John swallows thickly. What that means, or at least what John _ hopes _it means, is that they’re going to spend very little time with their clothes on. 

“Pass that whiskey over here,” Arthur calls out, startling John out of this thoughts. It takes him a moment to realize what Arthur is asking for. Then John pats his pocket for the bottle Hosea gave him and tosses it over.

Arthur takes a deep drink, eyes closed as he leans back in the saddle. He pulls the bottle from his lips and shivers. “Damn, that’s good stuff.” He corks the bottle and tosses it back to John. “Have a taste.”

John takes a swig, and shivers, in the wrong way. “Tastes like,” he says, managing not to cough, “tastes like all the other cheap rat piss they sell ‘round here.”

Arthur huffs. “Well give it back here if you don’t want it.”

“Didn’t say _ that._” John takes another swig, and curses the burn. “Any whiskey’s good whiskey, long as it gets you drunk.”

Arthur laughs. “Ain’t that the truth!”

He’s more relaxed than John’s seen him in a while. Hell, the only times John’s seen him breathe easy lately is when he’s boneless as a jellyfish after John finishes sucking his soul out through his dick (that’s how Arthur put it, anyway). 

These next few days, John plans to see Arthur like that a lot.

It’s been a while, been too long, far as John’s concerned. Not often they have time alone together. Last time was in the town Dutch and Hosea are on their way to con, in a grimy hotel room that had no redeeming qualities other than a locked door. John remembers his feet scrabbling across the floor as Arthur pulled him across the room, remembers the air whooshing out of his lungs as Arthur pushed him up against the wall. Then, he remembers the twisted humiliation and broiling heat as he was made to rut off against Arthur’s thigh until he shot off in his pants. He’d sucked Arthur off then, still breathless and sticky and Goddamned hard again because Arthur was gripping his hair tight enough to sting. 

John tugs at the bandana around his neck to get more air. Good thing Missy is following Boadicea, because John would have ridden straight into a tree by now. He doesn’t know what it is, but Arthur being mean like that just heats him right up. It’s _ good, _because Arthur ain’t like that. John’s seen him steal, kill, beat a man within an inch of his life and beyond. But around John and the rest of them, Arthur’s gruff moods are a well-worn joke. He’s sour and grumbly as all Hell, but one moment he’s cursing the lot of them and the next he’s coming back to camp with a fresh stock of tonics, because theirs were starting to run low.

Now, Arthur hums to himself as they amble up the mountain, singing a line or two of the tune out loud to Copper. A few petals from the spring blossoms have fallen onto the brim of his hat, decorating it like snowflakes. _ Soft bastard, _John thinks.

It’s another half hour before they reach the place in the mountains. John dismounts and takes a few steps towards the log cabin. It’s abandoned, the forest nearly overtaking it in one corner, but John can see why Arthur likes this place. With trees all around and the mountain peaks rising up behind, it’s nestled in the forest like an egg, cozy as anything. 

John hears the crunch of leaves beneath Arthur’s boots as he draws near. His whole body clenches in anticipation, then Arthur grips him by the arm and tugs him back against his chest. 

“What you think of it, boy?” Arthur asks, low and close against John’s ear.

All of John’s blood has gone south to his dick, so he doesn’t manage much more than a grunt. Arthur’s grip tightens as he pulls John closer against him. The bulge of his cock pushes against John’s ass, soft, but no less impressive for it.

“Well?”

“Yeah,” John says, which isn’t really an answer. Arthur chuckles, then releases John, unfortunately.

“Come on. Lots to do to get this place into shape.”

He couldn’t have said that before leaving John with a raging hard on?

There’s a stream nearby, and they haul water for the horses and the cabin. It’s a mighty fine place inside, with a stone hearth and a bed with a mattress that looks clean enough. John gets to work sweeping out the leaves and dust, and he feels only mildly guilty about shooing out the mama possum and her babies clinging to her that had taken up residence under the sink. They got to go, though. Ain’t for children’s eyes what’s about to happen in here. 

“Looks alright in here now,” Arthur says, “Go get the food in.”

John grumbles. He’s nearly twenty, for Christ’s sake, and sometimes Arthur still treats him like a kid who can’t do nothing for himself. _ Get the food. _He’s not stupid.

... oh... wait a minute...

... maybe he’s a little stupid.

He checks his saddlebags just in case. Bullets, cigarettes, matches, rope, pack of cards. _ Shit. _

Of course Arthur’s right behind him, close enough to hear John curse.

“What did you do?” he asks. 

“Nothin’!” John says.

Arthur narrows his eyes and takes a step closer. “That right?”

“… before you get mad-“

“_Marston,_” Arthur says, “What did you do?”

“It ain’t my fault!”

The look on Arthur’s face - John would shoot anyone coming at him with a look like that, and he’s half-tempted to for a second. Arthur just steps past him and yanks open the saddlebag to look inside, at the complete lack of anything resembling food.

“Aw, Hell...”

They gather up the few bits of food they have between them. A box of crackers, a can of beans. Half the bottle of whiskey that Hosea gave them, and two more bottles of rye. A single wrapped candy that John finds at the bottom of his saddlebag. 

“You had one job, Marston. _ One job. _Bet Dutch and Hosea are eating like kings with what they’ve got in their bags.”

“It ain’t my fault!” John protests again.

Arthur drags a hand down his face. “Ain’t your fault that you forgot to pack the food, huh. Whose fault is it, then?”

Far as John’s concerned, Arthur ain’t the only one who gets to be mean and sour, and John ain’t backing down without a fight. “Your fault,” he accuses.

“How’s that?”

“You was shaving this morning while I was packing up,” John says, “in your union suit.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And it’s all worn and threadbare.”

Arthur’s eyebrow arches higher. “_And?_”

“And- and I could see the whole outline of your cock through it! Was… _ distractin’._”

Arthur just stares at him for a long moment before burying his face in his hands and groaning. “Marston, I swear, you’ve got to be the dumbest son of a bitch around.”

“It just got me thinking’ about, about…” John swallows. “Well, we got a lot of time to ourselves out here. Good chance for us to... to fuck for real. Y’know?”

For all the messing around they’ve done, it’s only been hands and mouths involved. John was sure this was going to be their chance to fuck for real, like two men did. All the time in the world, and miles away from anyone to bother them...

Arthur just lets out an almighty sigh and takes his rifle from his horse.

“Got to catch ourselves some supper before we can get to any of that, don’t we?”

There’s no shortage of animals around these parts, if John’s stomping doesn’t scare off everything for a mile around. He’s waiting for something from Arthur, anything, but all that happens is that a rabbit makes itself an easy target for a crack shot like Arthur. It’s plump already for this time of year, and when Copper drops it at Arthur’s feet, John snatches the carcass before Arthur can take it. He expects a cuff over the head. In a mood like this, they always rile each other up until Dutch or Hosea steps in and sends one of them off until they cool down. Except, Arthur ain’t bothered by it. He lets John carry off the rabbit, and shows up at the cabin a while later with a bushel of wild carrots. John’s finished off the whiskey by then, and Arthur just uncorks a bottle of rye and sits down to chew on a piece of roast rabbit.

John watches him. Reclined against the bed’s headboard, shirt stripped off to his union suit beneath, sipping on rye and looking like he ain’t got a care in the world. 

It’s warm in the cabin from cooking, but John’s fired up enough that he could probably heat the place with his boiling temper alone. 

“Would you fucking stop already?” he snaps. 

Arthur looks up at him. “Stop what?”

“Actin’ all-“ John waves a hand, like he can grab the right word out of the air. “_Relaxed._”

“I _ am _relaxed.”

“Y’ain’t mad, that I forgot to bring the food along?”

John knows he sounds like a fool, especially now, when they’ve got more than enough to eat with little effort from either of them. Arthur thinks he’s a fool too, clearly.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks. 

“What’s the matter with _ you?_” John presses. “You got to be mad about it. Ain’t you?”

There’s a lilt to the end of it that says all too much, and John knows he’s given himself away. The mild annoyance on Arthur’s face twists up into a smile, not unlike the way a fox in a henhouse might look. 

“Oh, I get it now, Marston,” he says, grin widening. “Bein’ too nice for the likes of you, am I? You’re mad I ain’t smacking you around yet?”

John’s burning face now has little to do with the anger he felt a moment ago, but Goddammit, that’s what they came here for!

“Heh, looks like that’s it.” Arthur leans back and looks John up and down, slow, considering. “Alright,” he says, “Y’want me to be mad?”

“... _ Yeah._”

“Y’want me to be mean?”

“_Yeah._”

Arthur snorts, too low to be a laugh. “Get your clothes off.”

“I-“

“Said get your clothes off!”

John scrambles to obey, pulling off his boots and fighting down his suspenders. He’s got his pants halfway down his thighs before his hands fumble.

John’s embarrassed, a bit, of his skinny arms and washboard ribs - he’s never quite managed to fill out the same way Arthur did. John glances up through his hair. The way Arthur’s watching him is as mean as he always looks when they’re together like this, but there’s a flush to his cheeks too. Hell, John don’t even mind being thin as a beanpole and naked as the day he was born, because it means Arthur can see just how bad John wants this.

They’ve talked about it. John’s been thinking about it, more than he rightly ought to. Doing it for real... fucking like two men did...

“C’mere,” Arthur says. 

The moment it takes for John’s brain mush to react is a moment too long. 

“Said _ c’mere,_” Arthur snaps, mean enough that John’s legs would obey even if his brain was fried completely. “You stupid, boy?” He scowls up at John when John’s standing before him. “Forget to bring our food, can’t even listen right.” Arthur’s face is still twisted in a scowl as he runs his knuckles up the side of John’s bare thigh. “I ought to teach you a lesson.”

Oh, _ Hell yes_. John’s ready to show Arthur how sorry he is and how well he’ll learn his lesson for next time. Preferably on his knees. 

Arthur’s hand closes around his wrist and tugs - but instead of down, John goes over, and finds himself hauled across Arthur’s lap. 

He lands on the edge of the bed, hands barely making it beneath him to brace himself, and then there’s half a second of heart-pounding confusion before Arthur’s hand comes down - hard - over his ass. 

“_Hey!_” John shouts, “What the-“

Arthur smacks him again on the other cheek, just as hard, then a few more times again. 

“Arthur! S-stop-“

John manages to get a hand behind himself to cover his burning ass from getting hit again. It’s the same moment that Arthur’s other hand grips John’s hair and pushes him down into the mattress. 

“You sure about that, boy?” he asks, voice low and rough. John struggles against his grip. 

“Let go of me!” 

Arthur chuckles. “Sure. You don’t like it, I’ll let you up.” John braces himself to get hit again, but instead Arthur’s hand strokes down the back of his thigh, fingers tracing the edge of stinging skin. “So tell me you don’t like it.”

When Arthur shifts his legs, John’s cock brushes against his thigh, hard and straining. 

The pain, the humiliation… Arthur talking to him in that mean, gruff voice that makes John want to get on his knees right there… _ Goddammit. _ John’s hand balls into a fist before it drops away from the attempt to protect his burning ass. 

“Heh. That’s what I thought.”

Arthur moves his hand from where it’s pressing John’s face into the mattress to grab his arm and twist it behind his back, pinning him so John can’t squirm away. The strain is just on the right side of _ too much_. Arthur smacks his ass again and John groans. 

“C’mon,” John mumbles, hiding his grin now, “Do it like you mean it.”

_ Christ_, does that bastard hit hard. Each smack is enough to make John see white, but some fucked up instinct still lets John find just the right angle to rut against Arthur’s broad thigh. It’s so good, feeling the strength as Arthur lays into him in earnest, building power as the burn in John’s ass goes from smarting to stinging to downright throbbing, and when John comes, he swears his eyes roll into the back of his head and he hears Goddamned angels sing. 

Arthur hits him a few more times like he doesn’t care that John came, even though he does. He’s careful John doesn’t slide off the edge of the bed when Arthur rolls him off his lap to flop down like a rag doll. Now he gets it what Arthur meant about feeling boneless as a jellyfish. 

John’s so blissed out that it takes him a moment to realize that Arthur is shaking him. 

“John- hey- you alright there?”

He’s concerned. He’s always concerned, even after beating John’s ass black and blue. John lets out a huff of laughter that sounds more like a giggle. 

“Yeah. Think my brain just shot out my dick, though.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, fond. “Goddamn idiot, is what you are.”

“What’s that make you?”

Grumbling, Arthur stands to strip out of his pants and union suit. John watches dazedly, but if anything is going to make him keep his eyes open, it’s Arthur naked. He’s seen it enough before, dressing and washing in camp, but it’s less often like this - just the two of them, when John can watch Arthur’s broad chest, the shift of muscles beneath skin, the bob of his hard cock as Arthur settles down onto the bed beside him. Arthur takes John’s hand and brings it to his cock, and even though John’s still boneless, he rolls closer to more easily stroke Arthur off.

Arthur doesn’t like it when John tells him he’s handsome, which is unfair, because the sight of Arthur reclined on the bed with his arms folded behind his head is just about the handsomest thing John’s ever seen. He lets Arthur have his peace this time, though, and ignores his shit-eating grin as John pushes himself upright and moves down the bed.

“Ain’t you just a lucky bastard today?” Arthur says.

“Shut up,” John grumbles. Arthur’s always going on about how John enjoys this too much, but he’s right. The scent of him alone makes John’s eyelids flutter, and the taste of his cock, the heavy weight against his tongue, is enough to make John moan. With Arthur’s cock in his mouth, his ass still stinging from the beating, and his head in that pleasant floaty space that always follows an orgasm, John’s exactly the lucky bastard Arthur says he is, because this is about all he could want in the world right now.

Almost…

John hasn’t forgotten what he really wants from this.

“Arthur…” he says, with the head of Arthur’s cock still against his lips, “Can I…”

“Can you what?” Arthur doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes John by the hair to push his mouth back down. John goes easily, because why wouldn’t he. For all he’s thought about this, he’s not sure he could ask for it out loud. He shows Arthur instead, moving the hand cupping Arthur’s balls down lower, fingers sliding through the coarse hair there to rub over his asshole.

Arthur’s hand tightens in his hair. “Quit that,” he says, gruff.

John whines, the sound muffled around Arthur’s cock. He keeps his fingers where they are. This has been the center of John’s fantasies ever since the last time, the only time Arthur let him do it, and ever since then it’s been on John’s mind nearly constant, all hours of the day, like the need for it has soaked all the way into his bones.

Arthur lets go of John’s hair for a moment to smack him upside the head. “Told you to quit that,” he says, shifting away from John’s probing fingers.

Maybe Arthur shouldn’t be smacking him and pulling his hair as a way to make John _ stop _ doing something, but John relents, pulling back from his attempts to get his fingers inside. Arthur’s got to let him do it again sometime, doesn’t he? Or not. At this point, the need is so overwhelming that it doesn’t matter to John which way things go. He just needs it – now.

He’s going to get what he wants. 

John sits up to get his leg over Arthur’s hip and reaches back to line up the head of Arthur’s cock against his asshole. 

“_Whoa-! _”

Arthur says it like he’s slowing a horse. He might as well be with the way he yanks at John’s arm to ease him off, pitching him forward. “What the Hell you doin’?”

“C’mon!” John says, “Just let me-“

“_Marston._”

Arthur’s still holding his arm, and he lets go now as John struggles away. The bastard looks like John just slapped him. 

_ Shit. _ How did John get it so wrong?

“Arthur,” he says, soft. 

Arthur huffs. “Goddamn idiot. You’re going to hurt yourself like that.”

“Yeah, but…” He feels awful about that worried look on Arthur’s face, but John can’t help it. He’s only been able to think about one thing since Arthur told him they were coming to this place, and even though this isn’t the way they’ve talked about it, he can’t wait any longer. “We’re going to do it while we’re here, ain’t we? To fuck for real?”

“For real, huh,” Arthur says, watching John carefully.

John swallows. “Yeah. Y’know. I could- fuck you. Or you could fuck me. Don’t care, as long as we, uh…” John trails off, nervous suddenly with the way Arthur’s looking at him. “Do it. _ For real._”

Fingers brush against John’s neck, and John’s breath stutters while sparks shoot through his veins. It ain’t that he likes it, Hell, he’d blow out the brains of anyone else trying to touch him like this, too close to the memories of the noose around his neck when he was so sure he was going to die. With Arthur, though – Arthur asks for so little, and it never even crosses John’s mind to say no when he wants to do this.

Warm, calloused fingers span out below John’s jaw, holding him and pulling him closer. John lets himself be pulled until they’re together, the warmth of Arthur’s chest pressed against John’s own, fireworks under their skin wherever it touches, and Arthur’s eyes looking up at him with that liquid intensity that holds John tighter than anything else in the living world can.

“For real,” Arthur says again, lower now, with John so close against him. “This ain’t real? Feels real, to me.”

“Arthur…” John bites his lip, and has to close his eyes to keep from melting in Arthur’s hands right there, though it’s not much use, when Arthur leans in close against John’s neck, breathing in. “That ain’t what I meant…”

“How come what we do together ain’t real?” Arthur asks, “Just ‘cause someone don’t got a cock in them?”

His other hand moves between them, wrapping around both their cocks where they’re pressed together between their bellies. John barely noticed how hard he was again, but being this close to Arthur, it’s impossible not to be. 

“I-I think about it. All the time. Please, I want to...”

John has to fight to focus on what he really wants, but it’s hard, with Arthur touching him like this. Gripping him by the neck and cock, just how it would be if he really were fucking Arthur, if John really were inside him.

“_Please,_” John says. “It’s why we came here, ain’t it?”

“That so?”

John whimpers, and Arthur chuckles, punctuating it with a firm squeeze to John’s neck and cock both.

“We got three days here. Ain’t no need to rush. I’ll decide when it’s time for that, alright?”

“Yeah,” John agrees, and means it. Nothing like those blue eyes to remind him that he really will do anything for this bastard.

It’s easy, like it always is with Arthur, letting him take control and do what he wants, stroke them just how he wants, because it’s what John wants as well. _ Real… _ he thought what they do together wasn’t real? John’s a fool, which he knows already, but Lord does he know it now.

When they fall apart, panting, with both their spend splattered over Arthur’s stomach, it’s impossible to tell whose is whose, which makes John blush, for some reason he can’t explain. He watches Arthur trail his fingers through the mess across his belly. When he lifts his hand to John’s mouth, though, John flinches away.

Bad move. Arthur tries again, and when John squirms and winces as the blanket scratches against his still-sore ass, Arthur rolls over to pin him with his weight. John might be scrappy in a fight, but he’s got nothing against Arthur’s bulk, especially when Arthur seems determined to feed him their spend.

“How come someone who loves sucking dick as much as you hates the taste of come, huh?” Arthur asks, cruelly amused.

“Get off me!” John says, shoving at him. He doesn’t have much strength left, too boneless and sated, and despite his struggling, Arthur manages to press two come-covered fingers into John’s mouth.

John gags, which is apparently hilarious to Arthur, but at least he lets John up. John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glares at Arthur.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” John says.

Arthur laughs, which sounds nicer than it’s got any right to. “Yeah, Marston. I do.”


End file.
